


should see me in a crown

by Runespoor



Category: A Little Princess - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/pseuds/Runespoor
Summary: At least Lavinia didn’t cry when Miss Minchin told her of her parents’ ship being wrecked.
Relationships: Lavinia Herbert & Sara Crewe
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	should see me in a crown

**Author's Note:**

> title from the Billie Eilish song.
> 
> I love these two a normal amount.

The first person Lavinia sees is the last person she wants to see her; who else but Princess Sara, with those owlish green eyes of hers fixed on Lavinia. Lavinia’s always rather thought it made her look like some queer creature out of a nanny’s folk tale - the sort of tales Sara likes to tell so much and has everyone hanging on to her every word, a regular pied piper.

Before Sara came to the school, Lavinia’s place was the very highest, and now Sara will reign unchallenged. How infuriatingly fitting that she be the one to catch Lavinia at her most discomfited.

At least Lavinia didn’t cry when Miss Minchin told her of her parents’ ship being wrecked. She cannot abide the thought of silly, solemn Sara seeing her with red eyes.

They stare at each other for a moment. Lavinia is supposed to--well, no matter. Lavinia is to clear her things out, but she’ll not go to her room until she is sure Jessie is asleep. If Jessie talks to her now, Lavinia realizes suddenly, if Jessie inflicts her awkward fawning on Lavinia - Lavinia would scratch her eyes out.

Sara’s strange, solemn look always makes her look like she knows more than she ought to - an “old soul,” or so they say - and right now Lavinia’s blood runs crystal-cold with the certainty that Sara knows. (Yet what does it matter? Tomorrow the whole school will know of Lavinia’s disgrace. Sara’s forbidden knowledge will serve her very little then.)

It’s rage fueling Lavinia in this moment; making her back stand straight and burning her eyes dry. Rage, and resentment, at the unfairness of it all.

Sara is the first to speak; unusual, for her. Most of the time she’s happy to ignore Lavinia, or otherwise only responds when Lavinia goads her. Sara only acknowledges Lavinia’s presence when politeness demands she does - and for all of Sara’s habits that annoy Lavinia, the ability to turn good manners into tools of--of unavowed aggression is probably the one that makes Lavinia itch for a good screaming match the most.

“I--will you be leaving the school, then?”

Lavinia catches on to that rage and doesn’t let go. (Doesn’t let herself drown.) “You would like that, wouldn’t you.”

Lavinia’s heart is thumping in her chest. If Sara lies, she thinks wildly, if she dares pretend she won’t, Lavinia will steal her French notebook and burn it. She’ll have the opportunity, too, when she’s putting away the younger girls’ school things away after helping them. Since that is now to be part of Lavinia’s-- occupations.

Sara’s cheeks color - a flush of red on her winter-wan skin - and Lavinia tastes the satisfaction as though she’d drawn blood. Sara’s gaze flick to her mouth, and only then does Lavinia realize she’s showing teeth. (Unbecoming; of course, of course. _A proper young lady doesn’t sneer, Lavinia_ , Miss Minchin would say, but that’s no longer Lavinia, is it?)

“Does it matter?” Sara says, and her voice is low, and clear in the quiet corridor.

Lavinia’s lips stretch into a smile. “It doesn’t,” she replies, and walks past Sara with her head raised high.

In the next months, when she’s alone in her room without fire under the roof, kept awake by knots in her stomach and the noises in the walls - after she’s superbly, stupidly refused Jessie’s fumbling attempts at charity - Lavinia will wish many things different; but never this one moment, this final, meaningless victory.


End file.
